


sacrificial soldier

by cyrusbarrone



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Viking AU, they have different names to fit the time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyrusbarrone/pseuds/cyrusbarrone
Summary: Sometimes the Gods choose people's fates, though other times it is down to the people themselves. Buchna wished that his had been the choice of the Gods, and not Stevran's. It wasn't like he had a say in it though.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've literally been writing this since I was about fifteen years old (hint, i turn nineteen next week) so this first chapter was absolute trash. like, it was bad. I hope i edited the shit-ness out of it, though I guess we will find out. I'm fairly happy with it though, and this is the most of a fic I have ever written in my life, so I hope you guys like it. 
> 
> note, names are changed for historical accuracy (apart from Thor). Bucky is Buchna (book-na) Barnoff, Steve is Stevran 'the Indomitable', Peggy is Peggi, Natasha is Tasha. I hope you decide to give it a chance despite name changes ! I've had fun making this universe. <3 
> 
> (also, sorry abt the title, im shit with that kind of thing lmao)

They had been travelling for five days and tensions were high on the boat, people were irritable with the lack of space and the crowd of others. It was how the voyages often were, cramped and unhappy because for the time that their ship was sailing along the ocean people on board lost sight of what they were doing - why they were going there. It became unimportant, during your time on the long ship with thirty others, that once you reached land you were going to be caught in the heat and sweat of the battle- that you would soon get your hands on the gleaming treasures that others’ had horded. The swelling mass of the ocean made men go mad and that was barely sated even when they hit shore. The story of Bard the Insane was one that had been told to children for many generations. He had been in charge of his own long ship, having once been Bard the Great, and stared too long out at the sea for too many days of their voyage and simply lost it, though many suspected it was the work of Sirens. It was a story to scare the children- that your greatness is not set in stone, that it is something that one possesses and can lose. 

Buchna was irritable, like the rest of the men. He was tired of the sea spray of salt on his face and the smell of gutted fish. He was itching to move and to fight. He wanted to collect his share of treasures; his share of blood from the battlefield. He sought to earn his place in Valhalla if that was what it came to, as one could ask for no greater honour than that. 

They were on pillage East as the West was vast but empty. It was likely they would always voyage East, had done since as long as Buchna could remember (he remembered his father going out like this - battle axe gleaming with a new coat of grease and hair braided into intricacies for the battle awaiting him. Buchna had always wanted to be like his father in that sense. He wanted to make his family proud, but more than anything he had wanted to fight with his own battle axe, and he wanted to bleed for his people, for his Gods). The East still had plenty to take – gold, silver, tiny jewels that glimmered in the pale light of the sun. 

They weren’t far from the shoreline, and soon everyone would click into action, into well-repeated movements. The oars would slow and the anchor would be set, heavy and burying itself into the soft wet sand at the bottom of the ocean. The men would be up- collecting their weapons from where they were kept under the benches, retrieve their shields from where they hung in coloured banners down the long ships’ torso. Then as the boat came to a stop in the grey, shallow waters, the men would talk very briefly - a prayer to the Gods that this would go as it always did. Then the fun would begin.

Stevran was stood at the front of the boat, leaning up on the curved side with his hip as he spoke with Frode about their attack on the coast. It was often the same conversation, as there was never a need to consider their attack going south. It hadn’t so far, after all. The people of the East were never prepared for their axes and muscled giants; the wrath of Stevran the Indomitable. Frode had been on few pillages; he was only brought along because of his known correspondence with the Gods. It was always imperative that they had the Gods on their side. 

“Slow, men!” shouted Stevran from the front of the boat, braid hanging down in front of his face as he leant over the edge of the boat. “We’re fast approaching.”

The shore was bare. Its dunes of sand were topped with tufts of grey-green grass that sprouted out like the hair on an aging man’s head. It was empty, as though it had been abandoned upon word of their arrival. Buchna wouldn’t doubt it - men here were weak and fearsome of most things. They’d be hiding in the so-called safety of their homes. There was little they could do realistically, to halt their incoming slaughter. Buchna admired their efforts, in the way he might admire a child’s swordsmanship.  
The anchor was dropped; it plunged down until it collided with the sand. The long ship creaked and groaned as it was pulled to a gradual stop along the shore line. There was clattering and movement as men grabbed at their weapons; they fitted their thick fingers around the worn and blood stained handles. A flurry of colour flashed in Buchna’s peripherals as shields were flipped and pulled onto bulging forearms. 

Buchna swung his axe just slightly before walking over to where Stevran stood. He flashed him a sly grin before gently swinging his axe against his newly painted shield. A slight dent appeared in the wood, chipping into the white star painted there by the boys back home. Before each battle he made it his mission to anger Stevran, after all, it was proven that a man always fought far better when they were angry. Stevran had had a fiery temper since when they were just boys and it made winding him up practically effortless. A well-practised notion. 

Stevran glared at him from under the thick lines of his eyebrows, though ignored him. He stood a tall, looming figure at the end of the boat. His shield thunked as he knocked it against the side of the boat and gradually all eyes fell to him. 

“May Thor fight alongside us today, and insure our victory in battle. We will take all the plunder we may carry, and shed the blood of any man that may dare get in our way!” there was a guttural cheer from the men, energy finally hitting them and erasing the irritability. They were, once again, brothers in arms. “Let us leave now, men.”

A rush of movement followed Stevran’s words. There were splashes from large bodies as they hit the water, salt water splashing up into fountains every few seconds. Frode hung a string of shining metal over his own neck, lips moving in quiet praises to the Gods. He turned and touched carefully at the centre of Stevran’s forehead before he retrieved his axe and hopped off the side of the boat and into the grey water. The men looked small as they filtered out onto the beach. 

“Have luck today, brother,” Buchna wished Stevran. He chucked his legs over the side of the boat before jumping into the water himself. It was freezing, icy against his legs and his chest. It splashed up to a little past his elbows. He gripped his axe tighter and held it above the line of the water. “You shall need it!” he began to wade through the water, joining in the ant-march line of warriors bombarding the shore. 

Ever since they had started the pillages East Stevran and he had had a competition. It had originally been something to keep their younger-selves more aware of what they were doing, but now it was more for entertainment. With every kill they were to shout out a number (one for the first kill, seven for the seventh and so on). It was fun, friendly competition that often neither won by too many. They were nearly of equal strength, and both often killed the same amount of men and called out with blood slicked arms telling of their one-man victory. The other men had tried to join in once, but had never brought such a high tally as Buchna and Stevran did, so had stopped. It was more enjoyable that way.

His clothes were sodden and heavy with water by the time he joined the others on the beach. He felt soaked to the bone and his boots squelched with water at every footfall. The other men were sodden too, clothes dark with water and skin shiny and trickling. Buchna scraped back his long hair from his face and the water stuck it in place, only leaving a single braid by his eyes. He had never been a fan of tying his hair in string like Stevran or several other men were as it left him exposed from the neck down. 

Their Earl joined them on the beach water-logged. His shield had dribbles of water racing down its face, making dark lines against the bright colours it was decorated with. His sword glimmered in the light, making something deadly beautiful for a mere second or so. “We raid now, men,” he said.

Buchna grinned, for he could already feel the blood on his arms and hear the pleading of weak men. He raised his axe into the air and shouted, “fight down any that get in your way and take the plunder only once we are foot deep in blood of our enemies!” 

The men erupted in cheers and cries at the added words. Buchna watched one man strap his fingers tight to his war hammer with a strip of leather. His hand and weapon one. Buchna looked at the dents left in the sand as the march was made over the dunes and into the village beyond; smoke drifted into the air, dark as a crows wings. He shifted his own shield as he saw a line begin to form before them; it was made of small men with weapons like twigs and skin bore to cut. There were few, fifteen at the most, easy for their fleet of over thirty men to take down. 

“If I win today, brother, you certainly owe me something,” Buchna informed Stevran as the men of their group charged at the wall of pins. He watched the wall shatter to the ground, like splinters of wood against the weight of an axe. “And I shall win.”

Stevran clapped his hand against Buchna’s shoulder. The smell of blood from the fight blew into his nose. “Of course, a reward will certainly be needed.” And then they separated. Their boots skittered down the sand bringing them quickly to the forefront of the battle; men already lay upon the ground, slick in their own blood and shit. One of the men, Buchna noticed with interest, was missing his cheek, bite marks red and raw around the wound. 

Buchna’s axe felt heavy in his hand for a few moments as he looked over the dead. He saw one man shaking, quivering amongst corpses, and his lips quirked in the slightest; this was the beginning of victory. He fitted his hand around the thin rope of the man’s neck and hoisted him up from the ground as though he weighed as little as a child. The man shook on his feet and stumbled words that Buchna did not understand; Buchna pushed him back before he picked up his axe and swung. It was a glorious sight; the almost careful ripping of the throat and then the crack of bone being shattered under his blade, the hot burst of blood that gurgled from his neck before it heaved and red dripped down Buchna’s front.

“One!” he called, seconds before Stevran shouted ‘two’. He’d have to get a move on, for the games had begun, and what a glorious opening. 

As Buchna made his way into one of the houses, he watched Thor swing his hammer into the balding skull of a man. The bone shattered into a mess of skull and offal in the sand. Somewhere a horse whinnied, and cantered in panic; its hooves thudded great divots into the ground. Buchna didn’t look around the home he had walked into, and instead focussed on the blonde man stood before him. He held a stake out in front of him, the weapon shaking in his hand. Buchna’s laugh rolled around the room as he hacked his axe into the man’s middle once, then a second time, until blood rolled from his mouth and he was two separate pieces. Intestines coiled fat and viscous across the ground, like pale pink snakes ready to bite. Buchna called out his number, and wiped his bloody fingers down the front of his tunic.

Out of the next men he killed only two managed to injure him. A man with curling ginger hair scraped his thigh with a clumsy-knife while the other whacked what appeared to be a bone into his stomach until he was winded and angry. That man had his mouth torn from mouth to ear until his knives met in the middle. Buchna pissed on the body and tallied the number in his head.

“That is quite a mess, my friend,” Thor chortled at the body, though he did not hide the impressed look on his face.

Buchna grinned at the blond male and pushed his hand through his hair; it had drooped blood soaked in front of his face. “The God’s shall be impressed,” he said and winked at the other before leaving to find Stevran. He intended to rub his nose into his victory.

He saw the blond Earl as Buchna dropped his fourteenth limp body to the ground; the corpse leaked blood out from the gaping red gash that split his legs and up-up-up. Stevran was soaked in blood, arms slick with it and legs pretty near. His face was wild and his shield was smudged with the remains of a battle. Buchna had always admired his friend in battle; he admired the way his face got painted red and the way not one man had ever got close to defeating him, how he had only once got a real injury from warfare and that had been to protect Buchna. It had been when they were younger; on one of their first pillages where they were to become men. They had stuck together against the men with swords smaller than them, held together close until someone got Buchna’s neck in contact with a knife. Stevran had growled and sliced his sword into the man’s side until Buchna was released and his knees scraped in the ground. The man had tackled Stevran and pushed his little dagger into the bottom of his torso until Buchna hauled him off; it had taken the remains of his strength.

“What is your count?” asked Buchna, watching the limp body Stevran was muttering to. Stevran had always been funny when he actually killed someone; he would wish them well to the Gods and press his thick fingers against their foreheads. Stevran had told him it was respect but Buchna did not understand Stevran’s ritualistic killings. Since they were boys they were raised to know that their victims were not of importance and that they were a simple obstacle that could stop them from reaching their plunder. He didn’t mention it, though, because Stevran was Earl and had the right to do as he pleased.

Stevran looked at him, and his blue eyes sparkled. “Ten and five,” he tells Buchna like he knew he’d got him beat. 

“Ten and four,” Buchna admitted, sighing as the other grinned wide, though without the arrogance the other men held. “There are still more to fight, though, friend.” And there may have been if they had stopped talking and continued on with their raid; helped the other men slice and dice the men of the East. The number was dwindling and they spoke, and Buchna was anticipating the forfeit he would have to make for failing against Stevran, when something happened. 

There was a flare just to Buchna’s left, the glistening of the sun against a shield, and Buchna turned, stepping back until he pressed his back straight to Stevran’s. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Two men ran at them, wielding swords of poor steel that’s stood out a dull black against the stolen shields. There was a smack of their shields hitting against Stevran and Buchna’s; wood splintering just slightly before Buchna crushed his axe down into the stout man’s skull. He heard Stevran mimic his move, the hard and solid crunch of bone on blade. 

“Ten and five,” Buchna muttered, kicking the body away with his boot. Blood and skull smeared into the leather.

Stevran pulled his sword from the body, and turned to smile grimly at his friend, says, “Ten and six.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buchna attempts to beat Stevran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late but its not like yall are reading anyways haha

Heavy footsteps cut off Buchna’s panting. Buchna turned and flipped his axe from where it was held upright so that it fell down in his palm, hanging towards the ground. The man before him stood taller than any man Buchna had ever seen before by at least a foot; their men were covered in cold shadow. The man’s mere presence demanded attention. He wore a mask of stitched brown leather with holes for his eyes that sat wonky and stiff. Stitches on the mask lead to great rams’ horns that hung in thick spirals just to the sides of the eyes. The bottom part of his face stood bare - lacking the thick stubble of usual men - and his teeth were twisted and grey where they sat over his lip. His attire wasn’t something Buchna had ever seen before, either. He wore a tunic of leather similar to the one he wore over his face, except the shoulders were built up with fierce looking spikes and chains (as though once he had been enslaved) that hung over a solid belly. The man’s great biceps had straps of the same leather pulled around them and his muscles strained under the pull. 

“Mine!” Buchna claimed. Killing this warrior would certainly count as two men and Buchna was determined to beat Stevran. It was an honour thing; he would admit that, he did not like to lose against his Earl.

The other’s, some covered in loose, church-gold, stood leant into the remaining houses. They watched Buchna with careful eyes. Buchna could tell that some thought it was a ridiculous task to take for himself; while others sought the entertainment that would come with the battle. The Gods, Buchna was certain, would want the entertainment of their fight. 

“The Gods are with you, brother,” said one. 

The seven foot man picked up his axe, which was a thing of true beauty; its handle appeared to be hand carved it had a harsh bend in the middle before it led up to a sharp blade with a knife on the reverse side. He held the weapon in gloved fingers and let out a low sound in his throat. Buchna matched it, squaring his feet into the ground preparing to jump or run if he needed to. The axe was admirable even as it swung towards him, blade glinting near his ankles. Buchna managed to jump and avoid the swipe of the blade with fair ease. A grin pulled on his face, though it was not yet cocky, it was a mere challenge that the beast of a man try again. Buchna was determined to win this battle despite his own disadvantages. 

Buchna charged; he saw no other way to get at his target than to do so. His arms pulled tight when he swung his axe, cutting into the man’s thick thigh and creating a sizeable gash. He heard the men around him heckling words at him but his mind was blurred. All he could and needed to do was focus on was the warrior in front of him, a bulging mass of muscle, fight and blood. Buchna swallowed back the lump of fear forming in his throat. 

The fight wasn’t fast, indeed, it was all cut down to slow motion of the comically large axe swinging down in every place Buchna had been. Always was the giant one step behind Buchna who was light on his feet in his smaller size. However, on another step back the axe flanked into the wood of his shield and split it clean in two; Buchna threw it to the ground. He spat and felt it run down his chin in a dirty line. 

“Buchna!” shouted Stevran, and he didn’t turn from his opponent who bled and weakened with each well placed slicing of his axe. “Shield!” and then he proceeded to fling his own shield towards his best friend, the red white and blue swirled together as it flew through the air. It clattered to the ground in a puff of reddened dirt. 

Buchna stepped backwards, heart hammering in his ears and sweat rolling down his back in a sticky mess. The salt of the sweat burned at the wound between his shoulder blades where the monster of an axe had skimmed. He kept watching the other as he picked up the Earl’s shield, wielding it across his forearm; the metal shone on the front, glittered in the warriors’ hidden eyes. 

And as Buchna went to finish it, blood sticky and itchy underneath his clothes, the sun blinded into his eyes. At that moment he was weak – the other warrior smelled it like a male dog did a bitch in heat and took his opportunity. He pulled the axe down until the blade disappeared to Buchna’s left. 

He heard the shouting of his men before he really felt anything. His arm felt numb and warm, and his eyelids suddenly felt heavy. His mind wasn’t working right, his movements a step behind his brains’ commands. He’d heard of men who’d collapsed like this, tales from his father when he would come back from the pillages. When he fell on the battlefield, it frightened him that he would not return with Stevran and his people. It had never really been something that occurred to him; nothing ever went wrong for him, he was one of the best warriors that Stevran had, but here he fell. Thump against the ground and wet in what felt like blood. Buchna looked to where his arm was numbing, heat pulsing and he gaped at the blood that spurted from the new and fleshy stump of his shoulder in a grisly dark red. There, in a puddle of gritty brown was his arm. His breathing felt light and he wanted to sleep, more than he ever had in his life. The other warriors’ laugh rung in his ears and he knew that even whilst he dined in Valhalla he would never forget that sound. 

The fingers of his right hand stay still, wrapped tight around the wet handle of his axe and in the last moments before he slips into his much needed sleep (he was so very, very tired) he draws back his arm- his head swooping and tongue feeling heavy as steel- and flings his own axe. He does not see it sink into the back of the giant – like it was willed by the Gods - fresh between the curving shoulder blades. Buchna is not awake, too far into his whiteout sleep, to see the man of seven feet tall fall to the ground, knees thudding into the dirt first, and then the rest of him. He is not awake to see Thor smash his war hammer into the man’s skull. He is not awake to hear Stevran’s shouting. 

“Kill him!” shouted Stevran.

Stevran shouted orders, dirt and grit scraped into his knees as he fell to his friend’s side. He pulled at his tunic though he struggled to get it over his head in his haste to help his friend. Hurriedly, Stevran pressed the bundled material up against where blood spurted weakly the stump of Buchna’s arm. Buchna was paling, lips going white in a horrific contrast to the blood smeared over his face. Stevran’s tunic darkened with blood within minutes. 

“What of the plunder?” asked Eluf, hands filled with chains of gold and silver, hardly a drop of blood on him, “shall we carry it back to the boat?”

Stevran didn’t turn from his fallen friend. He noted every single detail he could about Buchna, rewriting all the memories they had together. He hardly wanted to think about the fact that those memories might be the only ones he would get. The possibility that this was the last memory he was going to have of his best friend, though he didn’t want to remember a moment of it, was hard-hitting.   
“We get Buchna back to the boat,” he corrected, turning to Eluf with ferocity in his eyes, daring him to suggest that the plunder was more important than his fallen comrade. When Eluf does goes to argue, hands clenched around the intricate chains, Stevran snarled and his point was made. 

It is true that Stevran did not think of his other fallen men while he fussed over Buchna. Two had been killed, by sheer luck of their opponents, it seemed. But he did not do anything about their corpses of their mourners.

Thor is the first to help him, handing his thick and blood caked war-hammer over to Frode. Frode who’s fretting and cursing into his beard, words wet with spit from his dishevelled teeth. His hands were crooked and awkward around the thick leathered handle of the war- hammer and he looked nothing of the great counsel-man he was titled. He looked as though he had already lost hope, holding onto that big hammer with a crooked back and twitching brows. Thor shouted orders to the men, telling them to take whatever plunder they had already collected but to return to their long ship with haste and urgency.  
“Stevran,” Thor said and shoved at the other blonde’s shoulders. When Stevran did nothing to reply, Thor grabbed at his face. It was silent before Thor smacked him across his cheek. 

Stevran stared at him; his hands were covered in blood. 

“Steve,” he says, like they’re friends. “You must pick Buchna up. We’re leaving.”

Reality comes back with haste, and Stevran set into action. Buchna was heavy to move; heavier than when they were kids balancing on each other’s’ shoulders and play fighting others with sticks stolen from the edges of fires. He’s was a dead weight- and Stevran dreaded to think what that might mean- hanging over Stevran’s forearms. The stump of where his left arm had been bleeds readily against Stevran’s bare chest, through the darkened tunic he had held against it, and there’s too much blood. He’s was a punctured sack of water, leaking and spewing until empty and useless; and Stevran was scared. 

Stevran had only held someone like that twice. The first time had been Peggi, on the night of their wedding; he’d scooped her up under her butt and cradled her to his chest in a moment of tenderness before placing her onto the furs of his beds. She’d grinned at him underneath her thick wavy hair, and pulled up her skirts and widened her thighs. That had been the end of their tender moment. The second time had been with Buchna who had held a stench of sweet summer wine and the underlying scent of mead; his head had lolled everywhere and his hands had insistently tugged at Stevran’s braids. Stevran had been so awful fond, smiling down at his friend dumb on the booze, while he carried him on back to his house. He’d laid him onto the furs of his bed and waited until he’d fallen asleep before he’d left. 

Holding Buchna like that now felt bitter. It tainted the good memories of wine-sweet laughter and hands too big grabbing at his beard, because now Buchna was still. He had none of the joy; and he was cold with the smell of death. The wound was beginning to sour. Circumstances had changed so fast. Stevran had had all faith that, if anyone, Buchna would have been able to defeat the giant.

The long-ship was a welcome thing; its boards creaked underneath Stevran’s feet and the newly added weight of goods stolen from churches. Blood dripped on the floor in raspberry constellations. A smear of blood formed beneath Buchna once Stevran set him down on the furs at the front of the ship. He threw the tunic over board, blood seeping out into a pale orange cloud, and pressed his fingers to the wound. 

“You should have left him, Earl,” muttered one of his men bravely, Eluf, perhaps. He was dripping sea water onto the planks, he was drenched in links of gold; jewels and blood. “He was a good warrior. Valhalla would have done well to have him.”

Another joins in, “he would prefer it to being a damned cripple.”

“You’ve taken away the man’s honour.”

“No, he wouldn’t’ve got to Valhalla, anyway,” argued one. “He threw his axe. He wasn’t holding his weapon.”

“Fool.”

The complaints turned to white noise, buzzing in his ears like fat bluebottles in the summer. Buchna had always hated the flies. They started to buzz around him then, tiny little things with wings translucent wings, they swum in the air as though around something dead and rotten and Stevran shooed them off with a flick of his hand. Buchna was still breathing; a shake to his chest and his lip, yes, but he was living and Stevran didn’t dare to think otherwise. 

He didn’t notice it when the boat began to move, sea chopping up into the wooden side and spraying wet and cold over his men. There was a sense of misery over the boat, dull, something that Stevran had never experienced on pillage before. He’d been on many pillages, since the age of sixteen years, he’d fought in battle alongside his best friend. He had slain many men, swiped them down with the sword his father passed down to him once upon his deathbed. His father hadn’t died in the battlefield, and it was something he had felt much shame for. He’d fallen from disease, a wound that went thick and pustular, bulging in a bubble of rot and viscous black blood until he couldn’t fight it anymore. Stevran would not allow the same to happen to Buchna. 

“Frode!” he called, standing from where he had been kneeling. There was blood everywhere. “Bring your herbs, you will help him.”

The man in question looked doubtful, thick eyebrows scrunching into a frown of white. His hands were laden with little pouches filled with aromatic herbs, and they shook slightly underneath Stevran’s stare. “I doubt he will make it through the night, Lord, even with my help—“

Stevran moved forward; his hand is hard and solid as it shoved against Frode’s wide chest, his hand fisting into the loose tunic there. The green tunic wrinkled under his fingers and their noses touched with the ferocity of his movement; little globules of spit hit and dripped into his twisted white beard, “Fucking fix him, medicine man!” he shoved at the elders’ chest and watched him stumble back onto the floor of the ship. “I don’t care what it takes, make him live.”

Frode nodded, as though the request had only just reached his ears. He scuttled around Buchna like a vulture around its dinner, pushing furs away from the oozing stump of his arm with careful fingers. Someone moved to help him, and Stevran could hear their soft mutterings to each other. He let himself hope that Buchna would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what u think x


	3. Chapter 3

My laptop with all 40,000 words of this fic on died today. I did not have it backed up, so do not have that fic anymore. If anyone was interested in this AU I'm very sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think !! I'm at ivarrboneless on tumblr if u wanna talk abt this or stranger things or kavinsky or anything like that <3 
> 
> next chapter will be up next Sunday.


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